Tuesday 14 May 2013

The Young That Grew Old

Dropping crumbs on dusty balconies
Licking empty ice-cream bowls clean
Decadent post-retirement age
Preaches determined delusionists
To dance

Feeding dreams with dishwater
Untying laces, breaking watch straps
Gravelling through grimy mornings
Living sodden after sunset stories
And sleep

Once pebbles fell and did not break
Promises were made and fulfilled
Love’s dreamy nights ended on its knees
Names were engraved on stones and rings
The young grew old and lived the same dream
Of sighs that once were wishes
That children shut their eyes and blew
That fluttered into darkness
Trodden underfoot 
By the young that grew old

Dig now under piles and piles of regret
And miles of sand and sawdust
And through the bone dry surface
Grow leaves of untrodden faith yet
Gleam emerald-like in the gloom
Until plucked again
Maybe, maybe we’ll grow glass cases some day.

1 comment:

  1. if your poetry is this beautiful, i can only wonder what you would be like.